


Goodbye, Sherlock

by MayM



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Feels, First Kiss, Fluff, Imagination, Johnlock - Freeform, Reichenbach Fall, Reichenbach Feels, Sad, ghost - Freeform, kiss, rooftop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:08:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayM/pseuds/MayM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if it wasn't Sherlock that jumped off St Bartholomew's rooftop? What if it was John?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye, Sherlock

“No. Friends protect people.” He leaves the room with a bang as the door swings and hits the frame, his words hanging in the now silent air. Sherlock’s hands pull up to his face as he think deeply, but John’s words constantly run through his mind every time he begins to get anywhere with his thoughts.

He knows Mrs. Hudson is safe. He had left one of the homeless in 221B ever since the intruder during the game with The Woman, one simple text would alert him of any harm that came to her, and right now his phone is as dead as the room he sits in. Mrs Hudson _is_ safe.

But is John?

What if it’s a trap?

He slides out his phone and checks the time. John has been gone half an hour.

He starts to type out a message to John, inquiring their landlady’s safety, when his phone alerts him with a text. Sagging with relief, he exits the New Message and instead he checks his inbox, expecting a “False alarm” from John.

**IT’S A TRAP**

– **JM**

He stares at the pixels on the screen, mind racing, eyes flickering back and forth across the words, before leaping to his feet. Sherlock grabs his coat, folds it over his arm, and strides from the room. Back to 221B.

***

John swings the front door open, and nearly collides with Mrs Hudson. Alive. He exhales deeply, and doesn’t pay attention to what she says, just grateful she’s here. His phone buzzes and he pulls it out. The text glares up at him.

**Whoops, sorry, wrong person! How silly of me. A certain friend of yours is up here, ABOUT to be shot. Come up to St Bart’s roof to come and claim him, Watson.**

– **JM**

Stomach clenching, he turns on his heel and jogs out of the flat. A taxi swings by and he rushes forward, flashing Lestrade’s police badge Sherlock had given him so long ago, and yells, “Police! Well… sort of,” Yanking the door open, he states the address. The taxi swings out of side of the street and starts to bustle down the road.

The taxi draws up to the hospital, and after chucking a twenty pound note at the driver and shouting over his shoulder, “Keep the change!” he hurtles out into the street, and then sprints up to the hospital, heart pounding and blood pumping through his veins.

 

***

Sherlock stares out the window, knees tucked up to his stomach, his body tense. Buildings and people blissfully whiz by. His curls bounce as he shakes his head, closing his eyes and wishing for the text to be fake. The taxi slows to a halt, and paying his fare, he clambers out, and then races up the stairs to the front door. Mrs Hudson stands in the hallway, chatting happily with one of the assassins as he fiddles with his toolbox. He rushes forwards, grabs Mrs Hudson by the upper arm, and swivels her around. He leans in towards her shocked face, and growls, “Where. Is. John.”

“He left, Sherlock.” He releases the strong grip and bounds out of the flat, running his hands through his curls.

**WHERE ARE YOU?**

– **SH**

He hits send and waits.

*******

Wind swirls around John. He takes in the scene. The skyline of London stretches out beyond the rooftop. Standing in the centre, is him.

Moriarty.

He looks up at John, and grins. Hands clasped behind his back, he strolls towards him. He then stops a metre away from John. The minutes trawl away, until the silence is broken by Moriarty’s clicking footsteps as he circles John, the smirk wide across his face.

“Where’s Sherlock?” John mutters through clenched teeth. His hands bawl up by his side, his stomach muscles clench.

“Oh, him? Sherlock? He’s not here. He never was. And won’t be until we’re finished. All part of my plan, dear Watson, thank you for completing it for me.”

“Plan?”

Jim leans close to John’s right ear and whispers menacingly,

“To burn him,” He barely finishes his words before John grabs him, and throws himself on top of him. He saddles his hips, pressing his knees down on his legs, stopping him from getting away. John then pulls his fist back, aiming right for Moriarty’s nose, his mouth, his heart. Moriarty rises his eyebrows, and chuckles darkly.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh deary me! I haven’t done anything yet, Dr. Watson, I wouldn’t deem it wise to hurt me yet, please don’t be as obvious as I think you are.” He ads in a dramatic whisper, “Surprise me!”

John sits, chest heaving, glaring down at him.

John’s hand soars through the air and collides with his nose with a sickening crunch. He pulls it back for a second, and Moriarty’s eyes bore into him, his face stoic, not flinching at the gushing blood. The bridge of his nose juts upwards, the splintered bone digging into his skin.

“Fine. Since you truly are so ordinary, if you hurt me any more, there will be consequences. Deadly consequences.” Panting, John falters, and then swings off of Moriaty, knowing when he’s beaten. They both stand up, faces just centimetres apart.

“You see, Doctor Watson, unless you die today, in front of Sherlock, he, and all your other little friends here in London, will die.”

A muscle twitches in John’s jaw.

“What if I kill you first?”

Moriarty barks a laugh.

“Oh John, do you honestly think I will be the one to kill them? No, no, no, no. I’ve got a few friends to do that for me. They see me die, they prepare to kill your friends, if they see you jump, they put away their weapons. If they don’t, they fire away. Now make your choice.”

“So that’s it? I have to jump off this building to save Sherlock? Are _you_ really so obvious?”

Moriarty studies John before replies.

“John, the killers are only going to withdraw if you burn Sherlock. I never do like getting my hands dirty, you see.”

Silence.

“What I mean is, you have to make him believe that you think he’s a fake.” He leans back in and murmurs, “Burn the heart out of him.”

John’s left hand tremors slightly, and his eyes close, his breath short and quick as he runs through what Moriarty has just said.

“And if I walk away?”

“You can’t, because I’ll do this.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gun. John stumbles back, but regains his balance and then stands his ground, trained to keep calm around a gun in the enemy’s hands. “Check mate,” He slips the gun into his puckered mouth, eyes blown wide with excitement and thrill. John lurches forward, a yelp lodging in his throat as the click of the trigger is followed by a crack. Moriarty falls and slumps to the ground. Blood trickles down from his head, chunks of skin and brain peeking out from beneath him. A smile still lies on his lips, his eyes open and staring at John. A crumpled piece of paper slips between his fingers, and John leans down to pick it up

Blinking away tears, knowing what he has to do to Sherlock, John steps up onto the ledge. He pulls out his phone and reads the text he never answered.

**WHERE ARE YOU?**

– **SH**

He slowly types out the reply, and hits send.

**Barts. Meet me outside.**

– **JW**

He replies almost immediately.

**I’m inside, I was looking for you. Where’s Moriarty? Are you alright? Can’t you just come in here?**

– **SH**

**No, look I’ll explain it all once you get out here, just please meet me here, it’s urgent.**

– **JW**

**Alright, fine, I’m on it.**

– **SH**

**Right, I’m outside. Where are you? I can’t see you.**

– **SH**

**John?**

– **SH**

John stares down through tears at Sherlock’s revolving body below, his keen eyes searching for him. He walks towards the road, spinning around and around, coat twirling, hands deep in his pockets.

***

_**Incoming call… John Watson** _

Sherlock warily presses answer, and holds the phone up to his ears, still swivelling in circles.

“John.”

“Sherlock.” His voice cracks and sounds slightly muffled. He turns, frowning.

“Well? Where are you?”

“Sher... I... I'm up here, look,”

“Up whe... oh.” His eyes fall on John's short figure, standing proud on the rooftop. “John, why? Why are you up there? Do you need help getting down?”A note of humour slips in his voice in the last one, and John can feel a smile spread across his face despite himself.

“Sherlock, I need you to listen to me now. Please, for once, just listen.”

“I always listen to you, John,”

“Alright but this time really listen to what I say to you Sherlock. Can you promise me that?”

“Yes, I promise,”

“Okay. Alright. Okay.” Sherlock hears John's voice quiver, and knows that sometime silence can ask someone a thousand questions, so silence he gives him.

“I know you're a fake. Everything Moriarty said, it's all true. Isn't it?”

“What? John what do you mean? You can't possibly-”

“Don't even try Sherlock! I believed in you. I looked up to you, I trusted you, I...” His voice falters and he forces himself to breath steadily. “I loved you.” Sherlock feels his throat tighten and choke up.

“Loved? As in past?”

“Yeah alright, maybe I still do, but I don't want to Sherlock. Because you used me. You lied to me, about _everything_ that has made life worth living. You made me feel like I, normal, down-to-earth John Watson, mattered to someone in the world.”

“John I-”

“Sherlock no, you promised me! Don't hurt me any more, Sherlock, please. Don't hurt me any more.”

“John no, listen to me, I am not a fake, it's Moriarty that is! John, you have to believe me, please!” The raw emotion in Sherlock's voice slams into John's gut and aches in his heart.

“Sherlock... Fine, okay, fine. I know you're not... You may find this hard to believe, but I had a problem.”

“A... A problem? John, what do you mean? I don't understand!”

“'Dear Jim, Please make my life more interesting, I miss my 'bad days' in the army.' It's not you who hired Moriarty, Sherlock. _I_ hired Moriarty. You were just my toy. The person Moriarty led me to. And along the way, I forgot he had planned all these crimes for me. I forgot he made me feel important, instead, it became all about you. I became too wrapped up in it, and now... now I've lost. Don't worry, Sherlock. Moriarty is dead. Nothing is going to happen to you any more. You're free.”

“What if I don't want to be free, John? What if I've loved this as much as you have?”

“I never doubted you did.”

“John why are you doing this?”

“Why d'you think? It's my note.”

“Note? Note for what?” Sherlock shakes his head, not wanting the worst to be true, “Stop it John. STOP IT.”

“I can't.”

“John, please, for me, please just stop.”

“Please, tell Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Stamford, Molly, everyone, bloody hell, even tell Anderson and Donovan, that you aren't the fake. I am.”

“John, please, just get down,”

“That's exactly what I'm doing. Goodbye, Sherlock.” The phone slips from his grasp to the floor, and John lowers his hand. Sherlock remains standing still, the phone still pressed to his ear, the end tone keeping his brain from growing too fuzzy. John takes a deep breath and lets it go, trying to steady his racing heart. Holding his eyes on Sherlock, he jumps. Vertigo swoops in his stomach, and he seems to hang in the air, before falling... falling.... falling... closer to the ground with every second. His eyes stay on Sherlock's frozen figure, his tears flying back across his face from the fierce wind, the caressing fingers of the air brushing through his hair until...

_**Slam** _

_***_

_I'm dreaming. This is a dream. John can't have, John hasn't, oh John._ Sherlock stumbles towards the crumpled heap on the ground. The emotionless becomes the emotional as he drops to the ground and cradles John's lolling head in his lap, burrowing his head into the sandy blond mop of hair, the strong arms of the ex-army doctor now limp and broken. Sherlock throws his head back, staring at the murky sky, tears rolling steadily down his face.

“Don't leave me, John Watson,” He murmurs, his voice rough. Sherlock looks back down to the broken body in his arms, at the wet cheeks of his Army Doctor, the usually creased forehead now flat.

He wouldn't believe it. Ever. John didn't lie to him. He... he didn't... he couldn't have... could he?

Staring at the face of his flatmate, he feels something shift inside his brain and lodge there, unmoved. He wouldn't believe John. He wouldn't tell anyone. John said he loved him, and you don't do that to people you love.

_How was IA supposed to love you without meeting you? I made the deal with Moriarty before meeting you._

A voice whispers through his head, John's voice.

  
“Oh John,” He weeps, pulling the body close to him. Sirens burst through the air but barely make it through the wool in his ears. Ghostly paramedics swarm around him and drag John away from him. A familiar arm wraps around his shoulder and pulls his limp body away from John.

“No... John,” He moans, stretching a hand out.

“Sherlock, it's alright, you're alright.” A male voice booms near his ear. Sherlock racks his brain and places the sound with Lestrade.

Unashamed, Sherlock curls into the warm body next to him and clutches at the slightly baggy shirt. Gripping the soft material in his hands, he lets the sobs leave his body, the salty water blossoming on the shirt.

“Hey, hey, hey, I'm going to take you to Mycroft, okay? Have a nice cup of tea with him,”

“No... John, I want tea with John,”

“You can't, Sherlock, I'm sorry, you just can't,”

“Don't take me to Mycroft... please let me stay with John,” Lestrade sighs, and Sherlock feels his arm slipping away. He perks up slightly and opens his eyes, hoping to see John's caring face in front of him. Instead, Lestrade slides him into the back of his police car. The door slams shut beside Sherlock, and his head rests against the cool glass. His eyes wander aimlessly outisde, and he spots Lestrade talking to one of the paramedics.

“Sherlock? What's wrong?” A voice asks from beside him.

“John!” Sherlock yells, his voice slurring slightly. Spinning to his left, he reaches out. John sits next to him, frowning worriedly at him. Sherlock lurches forward and throws his arms around him, but they go through John.

“You're... You're dead.” He replies softly, shaking his head back and forth slowly.

“Of course I am, you saw me jump.”

“So you're nothing but my own imagination.” John shrugs and smiles.

“Maybe. But I'm still here, aren't I.”

“Am I going crazy, John?”

“No, you're just in shock. Don't worry, Sherlock. I won't leave you.”

“I don't want you to. And I'm not in shock!” John giggles, and Sherlock feels a timid smile play on his lips. “And I don't want to see Mycroft, either.”

“Don't then. Get out of the car and go home.” Sherlock turns to John, eyebrows raised.

“I'm surprised, John, I'd have thought you'd want me to see my brother.”

“I'm telling you to go home, somewhere familiar, see Mrs Hudson and have a nice cup of tea. Doctor's orders. Go tell Lestrade.”

“I would... but he won't believe me. You are dead after all.”

“Hey!” He shouts, smiling at Sherlock. “But you're right. So, you want to run it?”

“Let's go,” Sherlock yanks the door open and slams it shut behind him, and smiles at John wildly from across the car. Lestrade is still talking to the paramedic, having not noticed Sherlock and John leave.

“Look, there I am.” John murmurs from beside Sherlock, both of their gazes locked on the open door of the ambulance, John's body lying on a stretcher.

“No, you're here John, with me. Let's go.” He turns and begins to run away from St Barts, his coat blowing madly in the wind. He turns to John and laughs manically as they both tear through the air.

“Sherlock!” John yells as a car swoops around the corner. Sherlock grabs John's hand and swings his arm forward before jumping to the pavement. The car's horns follows Sherlock to the ground. He swivels around, searching for John.

“John? John!”

“Right here,” John chuckles, standing in the middle of the road, “Even when I'm dead you're trying to save my life before your own,”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade calls, and John rushes to Sherlock's side.

“Quick, get up!” John hisses, and Sherlock clambers to his feet. They charge along and Sherlock hails a cab.

“221B Baker Street,” He tells the taxi driver, before sliding in next to John. They both ignore the worried glances in the rear view mirror from the taxi driver as they talk.

***

“Here you are, John, a nice cup of tea.” Sherlock says as he slowly walks to where John sits on his armchair. The liquid wobbles in the cups, threatening to spill over the lip. He bends down to pass a cup to John, who reaches up to take it. Sherlock releases it, and it falls through John and onto the armchair. Sherlock cries out and slams his own cup down onto the table. He rushes into the kitchen and grabs some paper towels, before returning to John's side. John shifts the the very edge of the chair, so Sherlock can clean up the mess without going through John. He dabs at the cushion, the white paper turning a pale brown.

“There you go, I'm so sorry I forgot,” He jabbers, yet John just stares at him sadly. He reaches out a hand and strokes Sherlock's cheek. Although, Sherlock can't feel it, he stops moving and tilts his head into John's hand. John smiles, yet it doesn't reach his eyes.

“John, I-” Yet he cuts off as John tentatively draws closer. Their eyes meet and they both know what they want, the impossible. John's lips hover in front of Sherlock's, and even though Sherlock feels sick with the fact he won't be able to feel John's lips against his own, his pulse quickens and he feels his heart flutter in his chest. He closes the gap between then and puckers his lips slightly, but John's lips is just an image. They hang in the air, and Sherlock closes his eyes, trying to close off emotions and stop the tears threatening to spill.

“John, I'm so sorry, I-” He cuts short as he opens his eyes to face an empty chair. “John?” He whispers, rising. He is met with silence. With a wobbling chin, he crashes down into John's damp armchair. “John, John, John, John,” He chants under his breath, eyes tightly shut, straining to conjure him up again. His eyes snap open, but John is not there. Falling back into the cushion, he closes his eyes softly, trying to remember every inch of John's face. He still does not appear.

Sherlock is alone. Lost. Empty. Forever.


End file.
